Sherlock Holmes: The Nightmare Detective A Study in Salem
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a detective for all things supernatural, and his new flat mate has to not only get used to the strange things around the flat, but also the witches, vampires, and ghosts flying around. In A Study in Salem, the duo finds themselves solving a triple homicide involving witches, as well as adjusting to their new living arrangements.
1. Intro

Meeting Sherlock Holmes causes most folks to decide to never repeat the action. The definitive difference between him and the rest of society sits in his eyes, and it takes a rare breed of man to not only endure his company, but to actively seek it. Though his pedigree was perfectly rare, his eyes were as soft as the rest of the populous and John Watson received just as much shock as any when he first came face-to-face with Mr. Holmes.


	2. Lead and Microscopes

John H. Watson was granted the privilege of adding the title 'Doctor' to the front of his name in 2004, but had little time to enjoy it before he was shuffled into the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and shipped off to serve Her Majesty in Afghanistan. As Assistant Surgeon, the war was never boring. There was always a soldier to be stitched up or a sand dune to run through; danger in every breath of scorching air, and safety seemed like a dream at the best of times. Not too long after arriving, John's bad luck was revealed in the form of hot metal exploding just under his subclavian artery. Bone breaks like glass when hit with the force of a bullet, and John began to suffer the pain of a shattering scapula and sand inside an open wound. His life was slipping, and fell right into the hands of his orderly and friend, Joseph. John's life was saved by a young soldier, in over his head and in enemy territory, but with enough of a brain above his shoulders to get his friend across British lines and to the help he needed.

After his brush with death, John was no longer very useful to the army; contracting a bad fever shortly after getting back on his feet and doing nothing more than taking up a hospital cot and trying not to die. Once his fever had reduced, and he could stand and walk without teetering or falling, he was discharged and sent back to England. With no family and no friends awaiting his return, his need for human contact naturally drifted him to London and to a small flat in the middle of the city that had seemed affordable on a small army pension. However, after a stint of being to frivolous with the money his country gave him, John's flat was no longer affordable on a small army pension. He began to look for a new home, and though fortune may favor the brave, John seemed to be transparent to fortune and his search was turning up nothing but disappointment.

John was about to give his flat hunt up as a lost cause, when his past solved his problem faster than his present could have even hoped to do. James Stamford, his dorm mate from his first year at University, saw John from across the cafe the afternoon after John's last hope at a place to stay turned up a bust. "Is that really you? John Watson! Great to see you." His big hand came down hard, unfortunately and unknowingly, right on John's wounded shoulder, drawing a wince that went quite unnoticed.

"Good to see you too, Jim." John rolled his shoulder in discomfort. "Want to join me?" He gestured to the chair opposite him. Though he had never been great friends with Stamford, it was still a relief to see a face he knew amongst the many strangers

"What trouble have you been getting into lately?" Stamford asked after getting his food and taking a seat across from the ex-military man. "You look three times your age." And the reason John had never been friends with his old dorm mate came to light: the man was too blunt for his own good.

"War does that to a man. I was deployed in Afghanistan, took some lead to the shoulder," He pointed vaguely to his left collarbone, "And they sent me home."

Stamford whistled through his teeth. "That's a lot of excitement for the kid who rarely left his room in Uni." John's eye roll went, again, unnoticed. "Now that you're back in London, what are you doing with yourself?"

"Mostly, just looking for a place to live. I can't really keep a flat by myself on the little pay I'm receiving for my service. Finding a place that's comfortable and cheap may be a bit of a stretch in London." John frowned at his soup, as though it was the tomatoes and cream that caused him to be without a place to stay.

"Huh." Stamford said thoughtfully, taking a large drink of his tea. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

John arched an eyebrow. "And who was the first?"

* * *

The labs at St. Bart's hospital were a maze extending through the first floor and basement of the left wing, but the layout hadn't changing since John's days as a medical student. The white-washed tiles, cold air, and the smell of various chemicals and suffering students was a comforting memory to fall back on; the first feeling of 'welcome home' that John had received since he had returned. He followed Stamford down the stairs to the lower labs, the wooden railing taking him back to the time he had stayed up for three days straight studying for an anatomy exam in the labs, only to collapse and fall asleep in that very stairwell, waking up with just barely enough time to sprint to take his exam. John still marveled at the fact that he not only made it to class on time, but he passed the test.

As they descended into the lowest labyrinth of the hospital, John was still curious about who he was about to meet. "So, you said he's not a med student or a chemist, but yet he spends a lot of time in the labs here?"

"No one around here really knows what he does. He's mostly a reserved person. Not really shy, so much as just locked inside his own little world. But, when he joins the land of the living, he can talk your ear off. The only thing I've ever gotten out of him by way of occupation is 'independent consultant'."

"Consultant of what?" They were nearing the last labs in the hallway.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Stamford replied, and pushed the last door open.

Inside, it looked just like any other research lab; a long table spanning the middle of the room, microscopes lining one wall, and chemical and storage cabinets along another. "This is the exact lab I took a final in one year." John whispered to Stamford, allowing himself just one more moment of nostalgia.

At the far end of the table, their person of interest sat absorbed in the specimen under his microscope. "Yes, Stamford?" The man's voice moved fluidly through the air, addressing his company before he had even laid eyes on them.

"Wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine. Told me the exact same thing you did this morning about finding a place to hang your hat."

The man didn't look up just yet, didn't even seem to have heard Stamford. He continued staring into his microscope, then suddenly heaved a large, disgruntled sigh, complaining, "Well that was a waste of three hours. I thought for sure that would work." He crumpled up a piece of paper and tossed it aggressively over his shoulder and finally sat up straight.

"What would work?"

He waved a dismissive hand at John's question. "An experiment involving specific natural toxins and a certain blood type. Never mind." He stood up finally and crossed the lab, coming to a stop in front of John, and extending a hand in greeting. "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's age preceded John's by only a few years, maybe 28 or 29, but his handshake rivaled the military doctor's easily; more strength than John would have accredited to the lean frame. His stare fixed John from behind eyes that far surpassed their chronological age, and it made John both uncomfortable and curious. Sherlock Holmes was all sharp angles and hard edges, which made his voice, smooth tones and soft resonance, seem quite displaced. John matched his potential flatmate's grip, and introduced himself. "John Watson."

"Well, Doctor Watson, I can see why you need a place to stay." He looked John up and down once. "An army pension isn't much these days, is it?"

"How did you-?"

He chuckled a little. "Never mind that." Sherlock leaned back against the lab table and crossed his arm over his chest, the sleeves of his dark red button up shirt rolled to his elbows strained a bit at the movement. "I play the violin at odd times, it helps me think. There are often various experiments in my home, and I can go for days without speaking a single word or even moving from where ever I've stationed myself. Will any of that bother you?"

"Uh, no. Not at all." John was still confused.

"What about you? Two people should know the worst before they move in together, after all."

John thought for a moment. He couldn't really recall what his worst habits were, so he picked a simple quirk. "I'm up at strange hours on occasion, and sometimes, I'll get really dissatisfied with my surroundings and I'll clean and reorganize like a frenzied housewife." He laughed at his own analogy, and drew a smile from the man across from him.

"Sounds like a good shortcoming to have, as I'm not only lazy, but sometimes extremely unorganized." He pushed off the table and shoved a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. He handed John a small piece of paper, then began to move back around to his microscope. "I've got my eye on a place across town from here. Big enough for two, small enough for a reasonable price. Noon tomorrow?" John nodded and went to ask, again, how the stranger had known about his military career and his doctoral status, but he was cut off as Sherlock continued to talk. "Now, I wish I could stay, but this needs to go back on ice soon. The consequences of leaving it out for much longer are not pleasant. Goodbye!" And with that, Sherlock Holmes whisked out of the lab in a flurry of dark hair and a red silk shirt, a severed arm held casually in his pale hands.


	3. 221B Baker Street

The folded scrap of paper that Sherlock had handed John the day before had the address of where they were to meet. 221B Baker Street. It was a quaint street, not too much excitement, but not quiet and boring, either. Kids were playing on the sidewalk across the street, and a group of mothers stood talking not too far away, babies on their hips and shopping in their arms. John arrived at the suite early, and as he waited for his new companion, he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to another. One of the ladies across the street, possibly an elder daughter of one of the mothers, caught his eye and held his gaze with a shy smile. John watched her tuck a brown curl behind her ear, and wave a slender hand in his direction. Just as he moved to wave back, his vision was flooded with dark blue and black. His potential flatmate had arrived, exactly at noon.

"It's good to see you again, John." Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's half-raised hand, all thoughts of pretty girls across streets forgotten as the partial stranger pulled him back to Earth with his firm handshake.

"You, too." John managed to get his hand back and nodded at the building. "It looks nice from out here."

Sherlock's unsettling gaze, hardly visible from underneath the brim of black and silver pinstriped fedora, moved from John and onto the property. "It certainly does. Shall we see inside?" He led the way, rapping shortly on the door, before returning his hands into the pocket of his jeans.

The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, opened up and let the two inside, leading them around their prospective lodgings and showing them all of the highlights. The flat was exactly as Sherlock had described it the day before; big enough for two, small enough for a modest price. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a spacious living area and kitchen. Book shelves reached to the ceiling next to a grand fireplace, and the couch and sitting chair were positioned just so to make for a great spot on cold winter nights.

"What do you think, boys?" Mrs. Hudson asked nicely.

"It's a nice place." John remarked. "Spacious, comfortable, and well furnished. A good combination of private and public."

"The previous borders convinced me to renovate the place. They were an odd little couple, but they were right in saying that knocking down the wall between the kitchen and the sitting room would open it right up." Mrs. Hudson said, gesturing to where the wall had been.

Sherlock flopped down dramatically into the sitting chair. "Fully furnished, then?"

Mrs. Hudson spoke as John tested out the couch. "Yes. The previous couple committed suicide. Oh no, not here in the flat," She added quickly when John shot back up from the couch. "Drove right into the Thames a few years ago and drowned. Such a shame, really. Anyway, they left all their furniture and personal belongings to me and the flat. I cleaned out and donated all personal effects, and just left furniture and basics."

"In that case, I think it's perfect." John resettled himself on the sofa.

"Then it's settled." Sherlock said, confirming his approval of the flat.

They signed the lease in a matter of minutes, and with only a few pen strokes, John Watson had a new home and a new friend.

* * *

John didn't have many possessions at his old place, making it easy for him to move in that evening; setting himself up in the bedroom closest to the kitchen, and receiving the best night of sleep he'd had since his university days. Sherlock brought his things around the next day, and as he unpacked and organized and mumbled to himself, John quietly vacated the flat to allow him the space he needed. John elected to explore the neighborhood. Baker Street was well across town from where he had spent his time, and he was keen to get to know the area as soon as possible. Driving over the day before, he'd noticed an Asda around the corner, and John set off walking in that direction, enjoying the breeze and the energy he had after his full night's rest. Half way down the street, the woman from the day before was exiting another flat.

When she saw John, she waved and said, "You must be the new resident in 221B."

John nodded. "Just moved in yesterday. John Watson."

"Mary Morstan." She took his outstretched hand and shook it delicately.

"It's good to meet one of the neighbors so soon."

"Oh, I don't live here. I live a few streets over, on Lancaster Avenue. I was just visiting a friend." John nodded, then shifted his weight and looked around the street. "Headed anywhere in particular?"

"No, not really. Just out for a stroll. Trying to get to know the area a bit better. I think there's an Asda just down this way, and I was going to wander around it for a while."

"Well, if you keep going in this direction, you'll hit a Tesco in about three miles. Asda is in the other direction, and a much shorter walk." She laughed in a light, good natured way at the slight blush that was filling his cheeks. "Here, I'll show you."

Mary showed him around the area, pointing him in the correct direction of the supermarket he'd initially been looking for and walking around the block with him. She introduced him to some of the neighbors, and they walked past the local park, stopping only once so John could buy them both a dish of ice cream from the van that was slowly making its way through the summer streets of London. It hadn't taken long to make their way around to the highlights of the area, and before John knew it, they were standing outside the door of 221B once more, street lights creating a different view of the door than when he'd left. "Goodnight, John Watson." Mary said, waving happily as she began to walk up the sidewalk and away from him. "Hopefully we'll meet again soon."

When John got back upstairs and into the living room, his flatmate was locked in his room, and the good doctor didn't hear a single shuffle out of him for the rest of the night. John quickly found out that this was mostly normal when living with Sherlock Holmes, but he was not a hard man to live with. He mostly kept to himself, and John only saw him in passing. "Afternoon, John." He would always say, as he rolled his fedora onto his head in a grandiose way and slip out the door. The independent consultant kept strange hours; often coming in at all times of the night and spending days in his room. On a few separate occasions, John grew concerned and considered knocking on his door, just to make sure his flatmate hadn't died in the three days he'd been locked in the bedroom. But, Sherlock would eventually emerge and John's concerns would go away once more.

Some days, Sherlock would spend hours and hours on end on the couch, at the kitchen table, in the sitting chair, or even in the middle of the living room floor once, not moving a single centimeter or even opening his eyes. He was odd, yes, but John could not justifiably say he was disagreeable or unpleasant. In fact, when the mood struck him, Sherlock could talk for days about the strangest topics, none of which John could understand, much less contribute to a conversation about in any way. So, the strange man in the room next to his would simple talk and talk while John listened and nodded politely. He could even read a newspaper or get up and walk away, and Sherlock would carry on with his one sided conversation, as if he were still there and attentive. The good doctor often wondered if Sherlock was ever specifically talking to him, or just conversing with the air in John's general direction.

However, all presumptions John Watson had made about his flatmate changed abruptly one night, when Sherlock came home with long scratches down his back and tracking blood onto the wooden floorboards as he roused John from sleep to get fast, much needed medical attention.


End file.
